


The minstrel boy to the war is gone

by Aeshna etonensis (GMWWemyss)



Series: Englishmen (and an Irishman) Abroad: Five Men in the Same Boat. To Say Nothing of the Dog.... [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Humour, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GMWWemyss/pseuds/Aeshna%20etonensis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall is unamused by the latest rumours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The minstrel boy to the war is gone

**Author's Note:**

> This is very much not my fandom (it wants too much Britpicking and de-Yankification, truly); I know of it only because I was in want of a model for the Wizarding boyband in _Da Slockit Light._ However, it has been impossible not to have been made aware of the recent implausible, and now-exploded, insanity and rumour-mongering; and to abreact my view of the same through my usual medium was irresistible. (Being partly Welsh - well, Anglo-Welsh - myself, I consider I have a right to allow Niall the views attributed to him here ... all of this, obviously, being the merest fiction.)

‘Band meetin’, _my_ room, _now._ ’

Niall was a ray of sunshine most of the time, but when he stormed, the wise sought shelter.

No one ever accused Louis of overmuch wisdom. ‘Well! There’s the snacks budget buggered.’

Niall’s glare might have withered half Ireland. Harry tugged Louis along with one huge paw over the infamous Tomlinson gob, as Liam and Zayn, following, exchanged uneasy glances.

They were barely inside Niall’s room when he slammed the door to behind them with a report as of artillery.

Even Louis had the sense to keep shtum.

‘And have y’ seen Tumblr, t’en?’ Niall had rounded on them, eyes blazing. ‘Twitter? T’e feckin’ Internet?’

Not even Zayn dared raise an eyebrow, let alone his voice in reply.

Niall was pacing like a caged wolf. ‘Floggin’ scent, we are, and singin’ to screamin’ teens, and all, and all t’e whiles, t’e four of ye…. _Shite._ D’y’know what it is t’ey are sayin’?

‘Af- _fairs,_ it is. Feckin’ shite. Liam couldn’t lie t’ save his life, he couldn’t, and Harry’s no better; and Zayn … t’ey can read ye, my maneen, face and body, at a mile and a bit-een.’

Louis frowned, trying to decide whether to be insulted or pleased by the implied compliment to his ability to lie.

Niall didn’t pause. ‘Oh, don’t y’ be preenin’, me Tommo, y’ can lie, and _do,_ easy as breat’in’, but as for bein’ belieft – Chrisht, ninety-year-old nuns in Knocknagoshel know y’ t’ be gay, lookin’ at ye.’

‘Well I never!’

‘Shut yer gob, t’is is _serious._ ’ Niall took a deep and ragged breath. ‘T’e two o’ _ye…._ ’ He looked at Liam and Zayn. ‘It’s all shite. And I’m tellin’ ye, trim your nails or give over wearin’ o’ shirts t’at show your backs, t’e bot’ o’ ye, will y’ not? But. I know, well as t’e four o’ ye, t’e idea some twenty-somet’in’ Yanks know your private business is feckin’ shite. So it is. Yet t’at’s t’e shite’s all over t’e Internet, and is it doin’ us any good as a band? It is not, whatever. And what for is it belieft? I’ll tell y’ for why.

‘Do y’ know why is it we all get on wit’ Ant and Danny? Aye, t’ey’re good lads. And what for would t’ey not be? “Riach” is a good Scots name, it is, and whiles t’ey’re not Irish, it’ll do.’

He pinned Louis and Liam with a cold stare. ‘ _But_. Lucas? _Samuels?_ Yer problem is, y’ hang about wit’ t’e fecking _Welsh._ Half t’e pirates o’ t’e Caribbean was feckin’ Welsh – Roberts, Morgan, and all sorts. David Lloyd George? Feckin’ Welsh. Ryan Feckin’ Giggs? Feckin’ Welsh. Y’ can’t _trust_ t’e wee buggers, but. Sure y’ can’t. Feckin’ Andy feckin’ outed y’ on Twitter, he did, Liam, by implication, and _so_ anyt’ing anyone cares t’ say about ye, t’ey can ascribe t’ t’at ’un, and t’ey _do._ Mot’er o’ God, he tried it on t’ tell y’ Zayn cheated on ye – as if he’d do t’at anymore’n he’d’ve shagged t’at Aussie slag, or me t’ be a feckin’ Orangeman – and t’ get y’ t’ retaliate, _wit’ himself,_ which was feckin’ daft, it was, and all because Zayn had a word wit’ him for outin’ ye … and because t’e fecking shitehawk wants y’ for his closeted self, aye. D’y’see _my_ ould friends doin’ anyt’ing could lead t’ rumours about m’self or givin’ t’e feckin’ eejits on t’e Net somet’ing to hang t’eir bonnets on, claimin’ t’ey know insiders? _Do_ ye? Y’ do not. Chrisht Jaysus, y’ want a better set o’ friends, y’ do, t’e four o’ ye, like Caesar’s fecking wife, above suspicion! Aye, it’s all feckin’ shite, it is, but Mot’er o’ God, it is out t’ere and it’s doin’ us no good at all, at all. Get it sorted, y’ gobshites. Because, why? Because it doesn’t feckin’ matter if we’re a wee band, or any of it, but I’m yer friend, and I’m not goin’ to stand idle and see t’e love betwixt two couples o’ me best friends dragged t’rough t’e muck like t’is, I amn’t.

‘So get it sorted. And get some better friends, Jaysus.’

‘I don’t think,’ said Harry, even more slowly than commonly, ‘we can. We’ve the best friend in the world already, Niall.’

‘Ah, Chrisht,’ said Niall, as he was dragged down by the others, ‘give over t’e feckin’ huggin’ and be gettin’ after sortin’ t’is!’

As Liam said as he wrapped Niall in a back-breaking embrace, ‘Not a chance, Horan. Hugs first.’


End file.
